Book Report: Timefulness

50. Marcia Bjornerud, Timefulness: How Thinking Like a Geologist Can Help Save the World (2018) (1/28/19)

And with this book, I meet my goal of fifty since January 28 of last year! I even made an effort to finish with a non–picture book (because I am, most of the time, an adult), and one that might provoke some thoughtfulness on my part. This one proved perfect. I learned a lot about geology, climate, time, change, equilibrium, rocks, chemistry, glaciers, fossils, and so much more. Well, actually, I probably "learned" just a fraction of all the fascinating science that is packed into this relatively short book of six chapters plus prologue and epilogue. My mind is not especially scientific—i.e. read: analytic—and my grasp of chemistry, physics, and the like is approximately nil. But still, I enjoyed this broad look into deep time, including the philosophical ramifications of It All.

This is popular science at its best. Bjornerud does a good job of contextualizing geology by bringing it home to place. And her facility with similes and analogies is spot-on. For example, in discussing the use of lead isotopes to arrive at the age of the Earth (4.5 billion years), she likens two radiogenic lead isotopes (derived from radioactive decay of uranium) to the cumulative earnings from two savings accounts, one with a high interest rate that allows rapid withdrawals to be made, the other with a lower interest rate that is drawn down more slowly; while a third, nonradiogenic isotope (that is, it starts out as lead) is like money hidden under a mattress. The earth itself she likens to a peach: the pit is the core, the flesh is the mantle, the skin is the crust, and the fuzz is the atmosphere. Works for me!

The chapters that I found most compelling were 2, "An Atlas of Time," where she covers the discoveries and thinking of foundational scientists such as Hutton, Lyell, and Darwin in the 18th and 19th centuries, up to big theories as mind-blowingly recent as the 1960s (plate tectonics and understanding of midoceanic ridges) and 1980s (the precise dating of the end of the Cretaceous period via the Mayan Peninsula's Chicxulub Crater)—even as we continue (eternally, no doubt) to revise our set of knowledge about this planet; and 6, "Timefulness: Utopian and Scientific," where she argues that humankind seriously needs a much more profound grasp of and appreciation for time both past and future, not just present, which is what economic models of value would ask us to focus on. As she puts it, "Stranded in the island of now, we are lonely." Not just lonely, but headed down a treacherous path.

In chapter 6, Bjornerud references the works of various artists as a means of better appreciating time. One is a project by photographer Rachel Sussman, who traveled around the world taking formal portraits of living organisms older than 2,000 years: The Oldest Living Things in the World. "These Old Ones," Bjornerud writes," open our eyes to alternative relationships with time. They help us, vicariously, to see beyond the horizon of our own mortal limits."

Yes, my mind grasps art and philosophy better than science. But in fact, both are crucial to our fate on this planet, and to the fate of this planet. We need imagination and close observation; creative approaches that transcend fiscal cycles; appreciation of the vast complexity of this endlessly evolving miracle that we call home.

For me, geology points to a middle way between the sins of narcissistic pride in our importance and existential despair at our insignificance. It affirms a teaching attributed to the eighteenth-century Polish Rabbi Simcha Bunim that we should all carry two slips of paper in our pockets: one that says "I am ashes and dust," and one that reads "The world was made for me." . . . If widely adopted, an attitude of timefulness could transform our relationships with nature, our fellow humans, and ourselves. Recognizing that our personal and cultural stories have always been embedded in larger, longer—and still elapsing—Earth stories might save us from environmental hubris. We might learn to place less value on novelty and disruption, and develop respect for durability and resilience. . . . Understanding how things have come to be the way they are, what has perished and what has persisted, makes it easier to recognize the differences between the ephemeral and the eternal. Growing old requires one to shed the illusion that there is only one version of the world.

If you're interested in reading more about "timefulness," here is an op-ed that Bjornerud published recently in the Los Angeles Times. I find it a wise approach indeed.

Book Report: Norse Mythology

49. Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology (2017) (1/25/19)

It's hard to know what to say about this rich, suspenseful, sometimes funny retelling of Norse myths, featuring the usual suspects, known now so well from blockbuster movies like Thor: Ragnarok—Odin, the one-eyed all-father; his son, the slightly dim but very powerful Thor, with his magic hammer, Mjollnir; the sly, tricky, not-to-be-trusted, even at times quite evil shapeshifter Loki, Thor's blood brother. But beyond these three, this book features a full cast of characters: gods, giants, dwarves; mighty serpents, wolves, eagles; and more—so many that I was glad for the thorough glossary at the end.

I never learned about the Norse myths in school, so these were new to me: how Odin lost an eye in exchange for wisdom at the well of Mimir, the guardian of memory; how Thor got his hammer in the first place; the provenance of the Gjallerhorn, owned by the watchman of the gods, which, when blown once, will signal the end of time, Ragnarok.

Well, wait: that's not entirely true. I mentioned Thor: Ragnarok above. That, if anywhere, is where I've learned what little I know about the Norse myths. And some of these gods show up in Gaiman's own American Gods as well. But . . . those sources are hardly definitive. I'm not sure Gaiman's stories here are exactly definitive either, but I do feel better educated now. (Carolyne Larrington's The Norse Myths: A Guide to the Gods and Heroes [2017] might be a more rigorous, if less entertaining, reference.)

The tone of the stories is mostly serious, though in dialogue—especially when Loki is involved—things lighten up. As here, where a test of skill, arranged by Loki and pitting three master-crafstman dwarves against two others, Brokk and Eitri, is being discussed:

"Let's make this personal, Loki. Eh?"
 "What do you have in mind?" asked Loki.
 "Your head," said Brokk. "If we win this contest, we get your head, Loki. There's lots of things going on in that head of yours, and I have no doubt that Eitri could make a wonderful device out of it. A thinking machine, perhaps. Or an inkwell."
 Loki kept smiling, but he scowled on the inside. The day had started out so well. Still, he simply had to ensure that Eitri and Brokk lost the contest; the gods would still get six wonderful things from the dwarfs, and Sif [Thor's wife] would get her golden hair [which Loki had stolen]. He could do that. He was Loki.
 "Of course," he said. "My head. No problem."

In the end, Brokk and Eitri win the contest, but Loki barely escapes with his head thanks to . . . one of his many ruses. "That was the thing about Loki. You resented him even when you were at your most grateful, and you were grateful to him even when you hated him the most."

I couldn't help but think of Tom Hiddleston when it came to Loki, and so the lengths of Loki's pure evil surprised, even distressed me. You just can't trust Hollywood.

The book begins with set-up: "The Players," "Before the Beginning and After," "Yggdrasil [the tree of wisdom] and the Nine Worlds," "Mimir's Head and Odin's Eye"—and then we get into storytelling, with scene and dialogue. Eleven such stories follow, ending with "Ragnarok: The Final Destiny of the Gods." Yet all is not over. As the last page of the book puts it, hopefully: "And the game begins anew." The playing pieces will just be different.

Here is a NYT article, "Neil Gaiman on His 'Norse Mythology,' in Which Odin Wants a Wall." In it he is asked why Norse mythology, why not Greek. He was attracted, he said, "partly by their flawed protagonists and satisfyingly dark worldview. 'Greek myths are full of sex and peacocks. There’s lots of sitting outside and falling in love with your own reflection. No one’s doing that in Norse mythology. You sit outside in the winter, you’re dead."

But still he has lots of fun with the situations, the landscape, the personalities, who indeed are all too human in many ways, with their petty jealousies and lapses of logic.

In scanning the web for information on this book, I learned that there is an audio version, narrated by Gaiman himself. I'm not really an audiobook listener, but that one: I might just have to seek it out for a repeat treat.

And finally, I can't resist: here's Tom Hiddleston on "life as Loki." Because Tom Hiddleston.

Book Report: Wolf in the Snow

48. Matthew Cordell, author and illustrator, Wolf in the Snow (2018) (1/21/19)

This mostly wordless Caldecott Award winner tells a simple story of a girl walking home from school one very snowy day and encountering a lost wolf cub. But she can hear the cub's pack howling in the distance, and she sets off to reunite them. As the snow continues to fall, her own tracks vanish. Which way is home?

The story plays out successfully (dare I say of course?), and beautifully thanks to Cordell's rich ink-and-watercolor illustrations. The Caldecott judges had this to say in conferring the award: "Fairy tale elements in a strong sense of color and geometry offer an engrossing, emotionally charged story."

Although this story might have played on fear—will the wolves eat the little girl?—Cordell has a different objective. He wants to explore coexistence, and perhaps the emotions that we share with our fellow denizens of this earth, and the idea of safety and belonging. He acknowledges the help of a biologist from the Yellowstone Wolf Project who gave valuable input on wolf behavior—including, I surmise, wolf-human interactions. I like stories that are not just emotionally charged, but also try to teach us something about the world. Especially respect.

Here are a few illustrations from the book (click on them to view large on black). Notice the Red Riding Hood–like attire of the girl. And yet the message of the book is just the opposite of that tale.

The prolific author talks about his work in a series of YouTube interviews. Here is the first, thirty-second one, and it appears they just keep rolling one into the next. I'm going to make some time to watch them soon. The more time I spend with picture books, the more I appreciate the creativity and heart of their authors.

Book Report: How to Be a Good Creature

47. Sy Montgomery, How to Be a Good Creature: A Memoir in Thirteen Animals (2018) (1/21/19)

This is an enchanting book by a longtime natural history writer, for both adults and children (her The Soul of the Octopus is on my to-read shelf, and after reading this book, I think I'll move it higher in the stack). As the subtitle says, it's a memoir of sorts, taking us from Sy's childhood with her Scottish terrier Molly—who taught her, in no uncertain terms, that there's a lot more to the world than exists within ordinary human sensory range—to the present, represented by another dog, the border collie Thurber, who has taught her this: "You never know, even when life looks hopeless, what might happen next. It could be that something wonderful is right around the corner."

Other border collies, Tess and Sally; a pig named Chris; and a half dozen chickens figure in as well, each with their own lessons. But we also learn how more exotic animals have impacted Sy's life and career: three emu named Bald Throat, Black Head, and Knackered Leg, who usher her onto the naturalist path she would (and still does) follow for thirty-plus years; a tarantula known as Clarabelle, who teaches about the enchantment of even the smallest corners of the world; a weasel that kills one of Sy's first chickens—doing exactly what comes naturally and teaching the balm of forgiveness; and Octavia, the octopus, who showed Sy "that our world, and the worlds around and within it, is aflame with shades of brilliance we cannot fathom—and is far more vibrant, far more holy, than we could ever imagine."

Or maybe we can. Sy does a pretty good job of helping us in our imaginings.

As she mourns the deaths of Tess and Chris, she finds escape from a deep depression on an expedition to the cloud forest of New Guinea to seek out rare Matschie's tree kangaroos. Those they did find, and more—and here we get a sample of her more descriptive prose:

At every turn, it seemed, we encountered evidence of rare, unlikely animals with incredible bodies, fantastic abilities, and delightful names. Echidnas are egg-laying animals, one of only two kinds on Earth (the platypus is the other). Mountain cuscus are the largest possums in the world, weighing up to thirteen pounds, nocturnal and secretive. Other animals we didn't actually see, but we found their nests, hides, and holes. We encountered a mound where a chicken-size brush fowl had dug a nest as big as a Volkswagen in the dirt, using the heat generated by compost to incubate his eggs. (Yes, the male tends them, adjusting the temperature as needed, cooling by digging ventilation holes.) We found holes in the grassy areas near camp that had been dug by pademelons—fat, furry kangaroo-like characters with alert, swiveling ears and stubby tails. The tracker reported they spotted a dorcopsis, a tiny wallaby with the face of a gazelle, near camp.
  This cloud forest world was vividly alive in a way I had not observed in any other habitat. Unlike in the Amazon and other rainforests I had visited, there were no mosquitoes (too cold), no biting ants, no poisonous snakes, spiders, or scorpions. Though Wasaunon was teeming with lives, all of them seemed not only benign but benevolent. . . .
  [About two tree kangaroos she helps to radio-collar and examine—whom the researcher dubs Tess and Chris—she writes:] They were their own complex, individual selves, who loved their unique lives. But also, they were, to me, wildness itself. These two animals carried within them the wild heart that beats inside all creatures—the wildness we honor in our breath and our blood, that wildness that keeps us on this spinning planet. Here in the cloud forest, I found again the wildness that keeps us sane and whole, the wild, delicious hunger for life.

That is the spirit that buoys the whole book, whether she's writing about animals very different from us, like Clarabelle and Octavia, or about her beloved family pets. She is curious, and appreciative of the holiness that infuses all life.

Book Report: God Bless the Gargoyles

46. Dav Pilkey, story and paintings, God Bless the Gargoyles (1996) (1/19/19)

I mentioned to a friend the other day that I'm reading picture books to bring me within reach of my fifty-book goal for the year (which ends ten days from today: and I'm gettin' there!). She thought about it and mentioned a few of her favorites, which she enjoys reading to her grandchildren. God Bless the Gargoyles was one title that stuck in my head. So I ordered it. It arrived today.

The author is apparently best known for his Captain Underpants series, which I gather is silly. This book, however, is decidedly unsilly. Though for some reason I was surprised that it's a rhyming book. But indeed, the rhymes made it that much more enjoyable: they're fun and give the text a nice dancelike rhythm.

The story is simple: long ago, when huge cathedrals were first built, the craftsmen made stone creatures to "set . . .  on perches to guard and protect and watch over the churches." These gargoyles were loyal, watchful, courageous, and fearless. However, over the years, people forgot the magic, and began to curse them as demons, as grotesque and horrid. The gargoyles became very sad.

but as it so happened, some angels were near,
and heeding the grief of a gargoyle's tear,
they each fluttered down from the heavens on high
to sit with the gargoyles beneath thundering skies.

They whispered life back into the gargoyles, who accompanied the angels on a great nighttime flight, soaring through the clouds and over the land, where the angels blessed all the creatures of the earth—especially those who do not belong, and the ones who are grieving, and the dreamers and the lovers whose hearts have been broken:

god bless each soul that is tortured and taunted,
god bless all creatures alone and unwanted.
and the gargoyles beheld wherever they roamed
the that souls of the lost weren't really alone.
each one had an angel, each one was protected,
and each one was cherished and loved and respected.

It's a lovely message, one that reminds me of one of my favorite movies, Wim Wenders's Wings of Desire. And the illustrations, which are reminiscent of stained-glass windows, merely add to the feeling of benediction and celebration. Unfortunately, I found only a couple of them online, so . . . you'll just have to seek out the book for yourself to see what I mean.

Book Report: Where the Crawdads Sing

45. Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (2018) (1/19/19)

This is a lovely book, a first novel by an established nonfiction writer from way back: I'm thinking of Cry of the Kalahari (1984), though she has written other natural history works as well.

I will always remember driving in a jeep through the Kalahari and our guide pointing to a lone acacia tree, saying, "That's where the Owenses had their camp for seven years." I am still a little in awe and envy of Delia's intrepidness and of her life as a field biologist.

This book, too, contains a lot of biology: the natural history of swamps and marshes, and of the seashore; the life cycles and mating rituals of numerous beasts, from fireflies to black-headed gulls to white-tail deer. The descriptive passages are poetic yet honed to the essential details.

The story, all in all, requires considerable suspension of disbelief, but the writing was inviting enough. It tells of a girl, Kya, who lives in a wild marshland with her family—all of whom, one by one, end up leaving her, until she is all alone by age ten. She has spent exactly one day in school by then, and never goes back, shamed by the children's taunting. But she does learn how to read, thanks to a boy from the nearby small town, Tate (her first "primer" is Aldo Leopold's Sand County Almanac). And she is able to provide for herself by trading harvested mussels and smoked fish with the black man, Jumpin', who owns the shoreside gas station just up the coast. Schooling herself with the books that Tate continues to bring over the years, she studies the heart of her beloved marshland, eventually publishing books of her paintings and observations. (Do you see why I said a suspension of disbelief is needed? I imagine the impatient cynic would just say, "Balderdash," and throw the book at the wall. I guess I was in the mood for some schlock.)

The book opens, though, with a death: a young man has fallen from a watchtower. The story then switches back and forth between Kya's ongoing tale, starting in 1952 when she is six, and then returning at intervals to the investigation of the death—which becomes a murder investigation, with Kya the only real suspect—in 1969. It's a reasonably clever structure and works to keep the reader's interest.

It is, in the end, part coming-of-age story, part love story, part murder mystery, part courtroom drama, part natural history lesson. Here's a snatch of the marsh, randomly selected:

A great blue heron is the color of gray mist reflecting in blue water. And like mist, she can fade into the backdrop, all of her disappearing except the concentric circles of her lock-and-load eyes. She is a patient, solitary hunter, standing alone as long as it takes to snatch her prey. Or, eyeing her catch, she will stride forward one slow step at a time, like a predacious bridesmaid. And yet, on rare occasions she hunts on the wing, darting and diving sharply, swordlike beak in the lead. 

Despite the often lyric writing, one rather prosaic paragraph in particular leapt out at me:

She handed Mrs. Hines, the librarian, a list of college textbooks. "Could you please help me find The Principles of Organic Chemistry by Geissman, Invertebrate Zoology of the Coastal Marsh by Jones, and Fundamentals of Ecology by Odum . . ." She'd seen these titles referenced in the last of the books Tate had given [her] before he left her for college.

It was quite a surprise to see my father's textbook referenced! I expect it's one that Owens herself studied (and perhaps suffered) from when she was in college. And yes, it made me enjoy the book that little smidgen bit more.

Book Report: The Arrival

44. Shaun Tan, The Arrival (2006) (1/15/19)

This exquisite, wordless graphic novel—six chapters and 128 pages long, each page consisting of from one to twelve sepia-toned drawings—tells the story of a nameless man who leaves his home and family to find a better life in a new land. It is the ageless story of the migrant, the refugee. In this case, sinister dragonlike tails wave over the city he is leaving behind, suggesting political oppression or some other danger. And the new land is full of strangeness: a strange language, strange architecture, strange food, strange pets even. We watch as he manages to find a place to sleep—where he meets his own friendly-creature pet—tries to find a job, learns how to feed himself on the bizarre fruits of the land, and meets others with tales of departure and arrival of their own, who help him along. Some of the drawings present intimate sequences of action; others portray overviews of this new place he finds himself in. They work together to convey the sense of disorientation and confusion that a newcomer feels in a strange land, but also the moments of comfort and homecoming.

Here is Tan, a native of Western Australia, talking about The Arrival on the occasion of it being set to music:

This book invites one to return again and again, to study the more elaborate, single-page or full-spread drawings for detail, or to stitch together the smaller drawings for story.

All ends well, with the family being reunited in their new home: the first and sixth chapters mirror each other both narratively and graphically. It's a flat-out beautiful book, and dare I say an important one as well.

Book Report: The Portrait

43. Iain Pears, The Portrait (2005) (1/15/19)

This slim (211-page) volume is a tour de force: a somewhat menacing, mysterious (very masculine) monologue, spoken by an artist—a portraitist—to an art critic over the course of a few days, as the critic sits as the subject of a painting. It takes place in 1912, on the tiny Breton island of Houat: the time is significant, being just at the crux between Post-Impressionism and Modernism; as, to a certain extent, is the place, it turns out in the end (though I won't give that away).

As you get going, the narration seems rather random, skipping from memory to memory—the artist, Henry MacAlpine, and the critic, William Nasmyth, were once good friends, the well-to-do British critic something of a mentor to the less worldly Scots painter—and filling the critic in on the last four years, beginning shortly before the artist left London and moved to this desolate fishing island. The speech is formal, dated—appropriate to the time. Over the course of the monologue we learn about how the Post-Impressionists came to be, if not embraced, at least known (which is half the battle) in London; about the creative opportunities of Paris, London, and (not so much) Glasgow; about women's place in the art world (virtually nonexistent); about showing and being received as an artist. And we learn about these two men's personal circle—a few individuals who end up playing a large role as the story unfolds.

I wasn't entirely sure I liked the book—Henry is a little mean, at once self-effacing and self-sure—but I kept going. And in the end, I'm glad I did, because all the undercurrents did finally lead to a satisfyingly chilling resolution. It is a mystery, but more of the Edgar Allan Poe than the Agatha Christie variety. There are signposts along the way to suggest what might happen.

And there is some beautiful writing. Here are a couple of examples. First, the task of the portraitist:

Now, to work. I have finished sketching, had enough experi-menting with your fine features. I tried all sorts of angles and poses in my head, and have settled on the one that was in my mind from the very beginning. The characteristic one you have of sitting in a chair with one shoulder slightly forward, and your head fractionally turned towards it. It gives you a sense of being about to move all the time, of energy. Quite undeserved, I think, as you are one of the laziest people I have ever known. Your energy is not physical at all; it is a fine case of the body reflecting the mind, creating an illusion which has nothing to do with the pills for the heart, weak arms and your tendency to puff and wheeze up stairs. It is an example of the superiority of the will over reality; I could beat the hell out of you, pick you up and carry you halfway across the island even against your will. Most people could; but I suspect the idea has never crossed anyone's mind since you were at school—where I imagine you were bullied, as children do not appreciate the power of the intellect. A further problem to be solved, of course—for the painting must convey the intellect through the physical—how to communicate the strength of one and the weakness of the other at the same time?

And here's a lovely meditation on place, via painting:

You see that my style has changed? Of course you have; you never miss anything. Along with the brushes, I have jettisoned the method. What were we taught? Line, line, line. And the immediacy of the impression: the great irreconcilables that have destroyed a generation or more of English painters. There we were, slopping down great gobs of paint trying to fix something glimpsed for a moment then half forgotten. As Monet had shown us, so we did. Well and good: it produced a few pretty things, although personally there was always some little Calvinist inside me tutting away about French corruption. By all means, try and capture that brilliant flash of light on the lily pond; the play of autumn sun on the cathedral façade. But we never get much sun in Scotland, you know. Not much light, either. We have fifty-nine different shades of grey. We are a nation en grisaille, and can see all of God's creation in the difference between an overcast dawn and a threatening, squally morning. Even the green of the hills is grey, if you study it properly. The heather and the lochs, all on a grey ground. The sun itself is a grey sun. Grey is not an immediate colour. It makes no immediate impression. You cannot paint it like that. you have to study grey for years—generations, I might say—before it will reveal its secrets. And then you have to paint deep, not on the surface. It would be like asking Tiepolo to paint his confections using the city councillors of Glasgow instead of the nobility of Venice. If you tried, the result would be laughable. Better not to try, and think of something else.
 Or leave, of course. There are some Scots who have reached that conclusion, abandoned the land of their birth and headed for the Mediterranean so they no longer have to use so much grey paint I can imagine what they must say back in Dundee. "Och, mon, it's sae very garish. Will ye just look at that, noo? Have ye everr seen a girrul with an orrange face before? I wouldnae hae' that in ma hoose if ye paid me." I used to sneer at the jute merchants of Dundee as well, all import ledgers and profit tallies, living in a world of penny counting and constraint. But they are right, after all. You have to make sense of what is around you, not dream of something so far away it is unattainable. You never do get girls with orange faces in Dundee; never see the sun refracted on the clear blue water.

Now, though, I think I'll read something a little less I-driven, and a lot more feminine.

Book Report: The Three Questions

42. Jon J. Muth, writer and illustrator, The Three Questions (2002) (1/14/19)

This story is based on a similarly titled piece by Leo Tolstoy, originally written to raise funds for the victims of an anti-Jewish pogrom in Kishniev. The three questions in each are

• When is the right time?
• Who are the right people?
• What is the most important thing to do?

Tolstoy's story involves a tsar who thinks that if he can find answers to these questions, he will never fail at anything. He summons advisors from all over, but each group gives him different responses to the three questions, none of which satisfies him. He decides to consult a hermit who is famous for his wisdom. When the tsar arrives at the hermit's hut, the man is digging in his garden but appears exhausted. The tsar offers to help. In the midst of the work, a wild-faced man comes running from the forest, clutching his bleeding stomach. The tsar takes him in and helps him, nursing him to back to health. It turns out, the man was an enemy of the tsar, sworn to kill him as vengeance for the death of the man's brother. But now he changes his tune and swears allegiance to the tsar, for his benevolence. When all that is wrapped up, the tsar turns to leave, saying he's sorry he didn't get answers to his questions. But, the hermit protests, of course you did!

Had you not taken pity on my weakness yesterday and dug these beds for me, instead of turning back alone, that fellow would have assaulted you, and you would have regretted not staying with me. Therefore, the most important time was when you were digging the beds; I was the most important man; and the most important pursuit was to do good to me. And later, when that man came running to us, the most important time was when you were taking care of him, for if you had not bound up his wounds, he would have died without having made peace with you; therefore he was the most important man, and what you did for him was the most important deed. Remember then: there is only one important time – Now. And it is important because it is the only time we have dominion over our selves; and the most important man is he with whom you are, for no one can  know whether or not he will ever have dealings with any other man; and the most important pursuit is to do good to him, since it is for that purpose alone that man was sent into this life.

In Muth's version, the tsar becomes a young boy, Nikolai; the advisors are a great blue heron, Sonya; a monkey, Gogol; and a borzoi dog, Pushkin. The hermit is a "turtle," Lev (actually a giant tortoise that, inexplicably, lives high up a mountain—but who's counting?). And the injured enemy becomes a gentle panda, injured in a storm, and her baby (neither bearing ill will toward a soul). There is still digging in the turtle's garden, and nursing back to health. And the lesson remains the same:

Remember then that there is only one important time, and that time is now. The most important one is always the one you are with. And the most important thing is to do good for the one who is standing at your side. For these, my dear boy, are the answer to what is most important in this world. That is why we are here.

What is really lovely about this book, as with so many picture books, is the art—in this case, exquisite watercolors.

Here is an interview with Jon J. Muth, about this book in part. In it, he says: "In the pictures I was probably influenced by Zen's 'nothing extra': showing what is essential, without decoration. Depicting nature as large and man as small is a feature of Asian painting and I realized later I had done that. I did these things unconsciously. Zen is a Buddhist way of sitting still and being present in the moment; a way of waking up to the fact that you are alive and connected to everything right now. The answers to the questions are all about that."

Book Report: The Principles of Uncertainty

41. Maira Kalman, The Principles of Uncertainty (2007) (1/10/19)

This book, an illustrated journal, started out as a monthly blog in the New York Times. It covers the year from May 2006 to April 2007, with such titles as "Sorry, the Rest Unknown," "Heaven on Earth," "Ich Habe Genug," and "The Impossibility of February."

The book is replete with Kalman's distinctive faux-naive gouache paintings, as well as embroidery and photography, all accompanied by seemingly stream-of-consciousness thoughts and wonderings about "what it all means." As she puts it on the cover fly leaf, "What is this book? What is anything? Who am I? Who are you? stop it forget it This is a year in my life profusely illustrated. Abounding with anguish, confusion, bits of wisdom, musings, meanderings, buckets of joie de vivre, and restful sojourns."

The book covers everything from (starting on page 1) the extinction of the dodo—followed immediately by the extinction of Spinoza and of Pavlov's dog—to elegant hats, people who have difficulty walking, sumptuous fruit platters, sinks, and obituaries. She describes heaven on earth as her aunt's kitchen in Tel Aviv, where they eat honey cake and talk about dead Russian writers. In August,

My sister and I go to Israel during the short, furious, the-world-is-doomed war [with Lebanon].
For a wedding.
Because you CANNOT postpone weddings in DARK Times—Especially in dark times.
Who knows when the light will come on again?
Are things Normal? I don't know.
Does life go on?
YES.

She shares with us some of her collections: of empty boxes, of sponges from around the world, of postcards from the Hotel Celeste in Tunisia, of whistles, candies, and suitcases. Her November entry begins,

We could speak about the meaning of life vis-à-vis non-consequential/deontological theories, apodictic transformation schemata, the incoherence of exemplification, metaphysical realism, Cartesian interactive dualism, revised non reductive dualism, postmodernist grammatology and dicey dichotomies. But we would still be left with Nietzsche's preposterous mustache which instills great anguish and skepticism in the brain, which leads (as it did in his case) to utter madness. I suggest we go to Paris instead.

And we do! Delightfully! There are superlative tassels, desserts, and pink beds, as well as a bit of malaise prompted by a nightmare. But it is soon overcome by a visit to the Luxembourg Gardens and some pinky pink paté.

January, "Completely," consists largely of photographs of individuals walking on streets, all taken from behind. I found this chapter especially beguiling, in part because I identify with the subject matter (I don't like taking photos of people—but from behind? sure!), but also because it made me think about her process, how much of her painting must rely on photos either that she takes or that she collects. It gives a clue to her roving, all-noticing eye.

 

Here is an interview with Kalman, "What's in Your Toolbox," that gives insight into her process—or her mind—or both.
Here's a blog post on how she combines gouache with ink lettering.
Here's an interview discussing how she stays creative.
Here is her daily routine (she starts by reading the obituaries).
And here's an interview about her writing.

Here are a few more examples of her eye, wit, and whimsy:

Also, the final chapter of The Principles of Uncertainty is still online.

Book Report: Math Curse

40. Jon Scieszka, with illustrations by Lane Smith, Math Curse (1995) (1/10/19)

I got around to working on the garage today—the half with boxes of books—and at the bottom of a box full of natural history guides and essay collections I found three larger-format books, all of which I will now proceed to review. The first that I (re)read was Math Curse. What a delight!

It concerns a child whose math teacher, Mrs. Fibonacci, says one Monday, "YOU KNOW, you can think of almost everything as a math problem...." Turn the page and, perhaps inevitably: On Tuesday I started having problems. They kick off first thing:

I wake up at 7:15. It takes me 10 minutes to get dressed, 15 minutes to eat my breakfast, and 1 minute to brush my teeth.
SUDDENLY, it's a problem:
1. If my bus leaves at 8:00, will I make it on time?
2. How many minutes in 1 hour?
3. How many teeth in 1 mouth?

Getting dressed proves to be a math problem ("How many shirts would I have if I threw away that awful plaid shirt?" is one pointed question). Breakfast is such a problem that the child ends up going hungry, overwhelmed by the number of cereal flakes in a bowl.

The whole morning is one problem after another.
There are 24 kids in my class.
I just know someone is going to bring in cupcakes to share.

Lunch presents a fraction problem by way of pizza. Social studies becomes a problem about measuring the 4,000 km long Mississippi River—using 1 cm long M&Ms. English is a word problem. Even Art turns into a connect-the-ancient-Mayan-numerals problem. "Math is just a total problem," and at the end of the day—someone remembers that they brought cupcakes! Twenty-four of them, for twenty-four students—but how to share them with Mrs. Fibonacci without some gnarly fractions entering in? Our hero finds a way, fortunately.

Dinner brings no relief, and then there are the nightmares:

I dream I'm trapped in a room with no doors and no windows. The room is covered with a lifetime of problems. I have only one piece of chalk. How do I get out? I'M ABOUT to give up and die, when the answer to my problem comes to me. Fractions. I break the chalk in half. Then I put the two halves together. One half plus one half equals one whole.
     I put the hole on the wall and jump out.
     I'M FREE.

The next morning, the original problem about getting dressed and catching the bus is a breeze! No problem! The math curse is broken!

Oh but wait. In science class, Mr. Newton says, "YOU KNOW, you can think of almost everything as a science experiment..."

The math problems alternate between real and silly. The art alternates between fairly simple and frenetic. There is so much to look at in the illustrations. This book is simply a whole lot of fun.

Here is an interview with the illustrator, Lane Smith (not about this book specifically, but it's interesting anyway).

And here are a few of the spreads (the final one being what is quoted above):

Book Report: The Tomten

39. Astrid Lindberg, from a poem by Viktor Rydberg, with illustrations by Harald Wibert, The Tomten (1960) (1/8/19)

A while back there was a discussion on FB about favorite children's books, and a friend mentioned The Tomten by Astrid Lindberg. I had never heard of it. So of course I ordered it: it's someone's favorite!

It's a sweet story about a little gnome who wanders around a snow-covered farm one night, talking to the inhabitants in tomten language (a "silent little language" that everyone but adult humans can understand) about how spring will soon be on its way. He visits the cows, the horse Dobbin, the sheep and their lambs, the chickens, the dog Caro, and even the humans (the children, if they were to awake, would be able to understand him—but they sleep on). At the end of his rounds he returns to his corner of the barn, and the cat, leaving behind only "a line of tiny footprints in the snow."

Here is the original Swedish poem on which Lindberg's book is based, with a translation.

I especially enjoyed this story for its illustrations, which remind me fondly of my sister-in-law's home place and her brother's farm: it's all so Norwegian. (Well, okay, this tomten is actually Swedish, but I'm familiar with Norwegian farms, and they're quite similar.) Here are the few I could find online:

Curiously, I am unable to learn anything from the Swedish Wikipedia page on Astrid Lindgren (who also wrote the Pippi Longstocking books, one of which my Norwegian language partner and I are currently tackling) about the original Tomten book. She wrote a heckuva lot of books and won a heckuva lot of awards, though, I'll say that.

A tomte is the Swedish version of a Danish or Norwegian nisse, a mythological creature associated with the winter solstice. He was once believed to be the "soul" of the first inhabitant of the farm, the one who cleared the tomt (house lot).

As Lindberg writes of this one, "He is an old, old tomten who has seen the snow of many hundreds of winters. No one knows when he came to the farm. No one has ever seen him, but they know he is there. Sometimes when they wake up they see the prints of his feet in the snow. But no one has seen the Tomten."

Thanks to Andrew for the recommendation. I love knowing there are tomtens out there, watching over things.

Book Report: Dead Water

38. Ann Cleeves, Dead Water (2013) (1/8/19)

I had finished Cleeves's Shetland mysteries a while back—or so I thought.* I recall the fourth of the series being disappointing, ending as it did with the (unnecessary, to my mind) offing of Inspector Jimmy Perez's fiancée. I figured Cleeves did that in order to send Jimmy into such a funk that he'd never want to do murder investigations again and she could escape his broodiness, turn to her new sleuth, Vera.

So imagine my surprise the other day when an avid-reader friend on FB mentioned Cleeves's newest Jimmy Perez mystery. I immediately dashed to the library, and yes, the first of a new quartet was in!

This one takes off six months after the fiancée's death. Jimmy is in a funk, but he's lured back into another complicated mystery that embraces Shetlanders and incomers ("soothmoothers," as they're called), big petroleum and alternative energy, old betrayals and new beginnings, love and jealousy—and always the beautiful Shetland landscape. There is a whole cavalcade of characters that keeps the red herrings swimming furiously by. In the end, I was surprised by the killer, and moderately convinced of his culpability.

(One teeny detail that Cleeves slipped up on: she mentions that the first victim's camera was found in the office of a press officer he'd spoken with earlier in the day. But the book opens with him shooting photographs immediately before he was killed. Tsk tsk.)

Nothing about the writing stands out: it's serviceable. The book is plot-driven. Quite satisfying.

Didn't I say not too long ago that I'd be going off mysteries for a while? I'm saying so again. At least this one had me guessing right to the—very abrupt—end. And yeah, I'm glad to see Jimmy back in the game. I hope he finds love again (there are strong hints that he will). I'll finish the next three over time. There's no rush.

*5/19/21: In fact, I was wrong about that: I had only read the first book of the first tetralogy. So yes, I skipped the second and third books—which is very unlike me. I like to read series in order. But Goodreads reminds me that I needed an airplane read, and the fourth Shetland book was there in the airport bookshop, so . . . my fate was sealed. I doubt I'll go back and read those two. As far as I'm concerned, Fran is dead and Jimmy Perez is trying to work his way back into life. No sense seeing the two of them in love, knowing what's about to happen.

Book Report: The Devoted

37. Blair Hurley, The Devoted (2018) (1/4/19)

This book is about a spiritual journey—sort of—and it's a coming-of-age story—also sort of, since the protagonist, Nicole, is thirtysomething when we meet her. She may not be young, but she's certainly confused enough.

The narrative begins in the present, as Bostonian Nicole seeks to escape her Zen "master," who remains nameless—and who for years has mixed sex in his private chambers and psychological domination in with his spiritual teachings. Nicole's brother has found Nicole an apartment in New York, and she's considering a change. On Christmas Eve, while mulling things over at a church service, she meets a recent divorcé, Sean. They grow close, but she decides to move to New York anyway. There, very quickly, she is contacted by a young woman, Jocelyn, who exhorts her to tell her story. Which she does, though she's never told anyone all of it before. She also dabbles in teaching Zen on her own, to a gaggle of variously motivated women seeking solace—until the Master reappears and begins exerting control over her again from afar.

The story Nicole tells Jocelyn goes back to her youth in Boston, where she was raised Catholic by a kind father and a depressive mother who finds extreme comfort in the Church. This takes place just as the sex abuse scandals are hitting and churches are closing. Nicole finds herself not just drifting, but sailing full-speed away from Catholicism and from her mother. She begins flirting with Buddhism while still in high school, then hits the road with two boys on a quest to join a monastery in Colorado. They drift; they grift; eventually, just as they are about to reach their goal, there's a blizzardy accident and one of the boys dies. She is brought home. Her father becomes ill and dies. She finds the Peaceful Healing Zen Center and spends ten years there, becoming the Master's "favorite student."

This is a first novel, and it felt like one: a little ragged, a little uneven—despite the glowing accolades by such luminaries as Joyce Carol Oates and Chang-Rae Lee (both call it "beautifully written") and Anita Shreve ("Hurley is a gorgeous writer"). There were lovely passages to be sure, but the whole package made me wonder if she had an editor. (She did, a "deeply insightful" one whom she credits in the acknowledgments.) There were some hefty metaphors, such as a never-ending soap-caked glob of hair that she pulls from her shower drain, which represents the past ten years, going back to when she was twenty-two, full of desire to be "the Master's for this life and all the next lives." Or bonsai trees cultivated by the Master, discovered by Nicole's brother: "He could appreciate the aesthetic pleasure of these delicate things. Beside them was spread an array of tools—wire cutters, snub-nosed pliers. And now he could see the technique behind the artistry: black wires spiraled tightly about the slender fingerling trunks, embracing them cruelly." Bonsai trees as Zen students. Or vice versa. There are multiple, detailed descriptions of the many (many) odds-and-ends—knickknacks, antiques, pieces of furniture—that Sean, a bit of a lost soul, collects. And there are occasional small but jarring inconsistencies (in one paragraph, Sean tells Nicole, "My wife . . . was so eager to get to California that she . . . left me all the furniture"; then two paragraphs down he says, "My wife took a lot of furniture." What? Which was it?) Characterizations were often uneven, motivations incomplete, certain actions unlikely.

All that said, Nicole's clumsy questing for some sort of spiritual foundation and meaning—well, it was fine. I guess I believe that she found her own path in the end, or at least was on the way there. The most satisfying passages did evoke the beauty of practice and devotion. "Sometimes meditation was like following a bouncing ball down a flight of stairs. . . . It floated her down levels of thought, leading her toward something silent and immovable at the core of her." When she attends an Easter service to appease her unforgiving mother, "She could see a mosaic of human faces, all of them familiar in their still poses. Of course they wanted the same things she did . . . the promise that sadness was not the inherent state of their lives, that the axle of the world turned on secret wells of joy."

I especially enjoyed a section where Nicole explains her personal experience of the Noble Eightfold Path (right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right effort, right livelihood, right mindfulness, right concentration) over a certain summer and fall, all narrated in the second person. Under Right Speech she avers, "We must learn how to love so that the beloved feels free." Perhaps, then, the journey of this book is Nicole's finding of both real love and freedom.

I'd give the book three stars on GoodReads because of its unevenness. I'm not sure I'd recommend it to most of my friends. But I'm not entirely sorry I took the time to read it, either.

Book Report: The Forest

36. Riccardo Bozzi, with illustrations by Violeta Lópiz and Valerio Vidali, translated from the Italian by Debbie Bibo, The Forest (2018) (1/3/19)

I learned about this book on Maria Popova's Brain Pickings as well. She quotes the biologist David George Haskell: "The forest is not a collection of entities [but] a place entirely made from strands of relationship." Bozzi's The Forest, she writes, embraces this "relational, existential mesmerism" of forests, artistically, emotionally, spiritually.

I was intrigued by the poetry of her description, and by the illustrations she featured. Despite the introduction, however, I was unprepared for the sumptuousness of this beautiful and unique volume, both physically—from the vellum-wrapped cover to the full-page embossed faces, the colorful, organic illustrations to the die-cut holes inviting the reader to look more closely—and philosophically.

The story is simple yet mysterious: We are presented, in spare words, with "an enormous, ancient forest, that has not yet been fully explored." Facing these words is the first embossed face, of a baby boy, whose eyes allow a glimpse of feathery green beyond. The words and colors lure us onward, into a grove of young pine trees, and there is another baby, this time a girl. As the stiff pages unfold—sometimes out into gatefolds, like hidden treasures—we venture deeper into the forest with these two. We meet fellow travelers, explorers who carry packs, kneel to gaze into watery pools, climb rocks, dance around fires. "Some choose to help each other out, while others prefer to push on alone." The babies become young children, then adolescents, then adults. These explorers leave traces of themselves along the way, and all eventually encounter a steep, difficult climb, with a sheer ravine at the end. The final spreads are ethereal, consisting of a lot of blank white, disappearing lines of embossing, and then new hints of color, as everything comes full circle.

Here are a few of the spreads: